


Angels & Ostriches

by Neotoma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys In Love, F/M, High School, Hugs, Kid Fic, M/M, Sassy, Sassy Mini-Bang 2011, angels lay eggs, egg fic, hugs and puppies for everyone!, puppy love!, teen!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotoma/pseuds/Neotoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John settles Dean and Sam in a town for months because Dean broke his leg badly, Sam finds his love of mathletics, home-cooking, and the weird boy next door. Meanwhile, Gabriel and Anna are raising their awkward teen-angel on earth to keep off Heaven's radar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels & Ostriches

[Art by Hyemfaxe](http://hrymfaxe.livejournal.com/59670.html)   


 

Castiel comes back to awareness slowly, like a light being kindled. When he is finally aware, he's terrified, because he realizes that there is time missing from his memory – something happened, and he doesn't remember it! He is missing time, and he is in a location he does not know or understand, being too full of matter, too dense and full of dim shapes that Castiel does not comprehend in the slightest. It feels nothing like the familiar bounds of his garrison, which sits on the surface of Heaven, guarding the entrances of holy light.

"Whoa there, kiddo," says a voice beside him, and Castiel bolts towards it, because he recognizes it as a cherub. Not his cherub, not Sachiel who protects his clutch for the garrison, but another cherub, unfamiliar but vast and comforting.

Castiel basks in the presence of the nurturing angel, and sighs in relief when he feels the other's wings come around him, pulling him into the corona of his elder's Grace.

"Hey, kiddo, hey," the cherub soothes, in a voice like brass, "you're all right."

"I am missing time," Castiel blurts. "Time passed, and I was unaware. Something is _wrong_." He pushes his distress at the cherub, and is dismayed when it doesn't respond to him. He feels disappointment, and pushes again, putting more of his Grace into it. Finally the cherub responds by taking in Castiel's disturbed Grace and cleansing it, returning his offering threefold and more.

Castiel retracts, or tries to, from the cherub, shocked by the welling Grace that is flooding towards him. It's more than Sachiel ever gave him, more than that cherub ever gave the entire clutch – the entire garrison, even.

"Not so fast, kiddo," the cherub says, and folds its wings around Castiel tighter, pulling him closer to its side.

"You're scaring him," says another angel.

Castiel had not noticed this angel, but now that he is alerted, he registers it is Ananchel. He turns his attention on his flight leader, and is confused. His perceptions are very strange.

Ananchel's magnificence is compressed until she is solid, as if she's congealed into _matter_. She has a _form_ , instead of being her diffuse and numinous self.

"Ananchel?" Castiel asks, "What..I don't... are you in a Vessel?" It is the only thing Castiel can draw up, that might make an angel as mighty as Ananchel seem so _small_. He perceives her as barely bigger than himself, which is wrong. Ananchel is a Bene Elohim, one of the rank that leads flights for their garrison. Castiel is still a hatchling – he may one day expand to her size, but he shouldn't be that big now.

"Yes, Castiel," she says, and Castiel can perceive her joy that he has come to the correct conclusion, even though her Grace is harder to perceive through the shell of her Vessel. The Vessel she wears – the form of matter – is not quite right, Castiel doesn't think. Surely a Vessel is not supposed to mute the magnificence of the angel using it.

Castiel takes stock of himself. Not only is he missing time, but now that his initial distress has passed, he perceives that he has also congealed into a form of matter. He looks – he has eyes, and perceives light through them, how odd – down at his appendages, and watches as they bend and flex to his commands.

"I am also in a Vessel. How? I did not communicate with any human!" he asks. He has rarely even perceived human souls, for his garrison are watchers, facing out to observe earth, and not inward to protect the fields of Heaven. Human souls are beautiful, of course, and powerful and very very dense, so Castiel and his clutch-fellows are not quite trusted to enfold them yet.

"That's the great thing," the cherub says, and Castiel brushes his wings against the cherub's, absorbing its – his, it is also wearing a Vessel, which is male if Castiel perceives things rightly – regard as the cherub begins to pulse again. "These are Vessels, but they're not human."

Castiel does not understand. Angel must take Vessels when they are on Earth – it is a rule.

"You, kiddo, are wearing the best golem I could get on such short notice!"

"Golem?" Castiel says.

"Golem," the cherub says. "No human soul to persuade, just an earthwork animated by a human using Father's name."

Castiel looks at Ananchel again. "Golem?"

She smiles and nods, and approaches Castiel where he's tucked under the shade of the cherub's wings. "Yes, Castiel. We're wearing golems."

"Sachiel never mentioned being able to use golems?" Castiel frowns at her.

"That's because I figured out I could use a golem instead of a human as my Vessel," the cherub says. "Sure, there's no handy human soul for emergency power boosts, but it's a lot easier to fly under the radar in one of these things! Heaven is never going to find us like this!"

Castiel frowns at the cherub, who still has Castiel wrapped in his wings tightly. Castiel is not newly hatched; he does not need to be so sheltered.

"Why would we want Heaven to be unable to find us?" Castiel says. "We are on Earth, missing and lost from the garrison. They _must_ retrieve us."

The cherub frowns at him, and his wings wrap even tighter around Castiel.

"Nuh-uh," the cherub growls, "nothing doing. I'm never going back."

Castiel frowns. "But... we have no orders. Surely, it is not the Father's will for us to be on Earth now..."

"I'm not going back, Castiel," Ananchel says. "You shouldn't have followed me."

Perhaps he shouldn't have followed the flight leader, but she had been leaving under strange circumstances and Castiel had wanted to reconcile his observation with the knowledge that there had been no orders to the garrison – or at least no orders that Castiel had heard in the midst of his clutchmates before Ananchel left. Castiel worries now that following her was not just ill-considered, but wrong and forbidden. "You have orders? The Father wills you to be on Earth?"

"No," Ananchel says, "I have no word from Father..."

"Daddy doesn't say anything to anybody anymore," the cherub says.

Castiel struggles against the cherub, appalled. "Of course the Father talks to our higher brethren. How else do we get orders from those above us?"

"Trust me, kiddo. Daddy isn't talking to them, either. Whatever orders you've been getting in your garrison, they're not the word of God."

"How can you say that?" Castiel tries to pull back from the cherub again. Clearly, this nurturer is deranged, and his Grace will contaminate Castiel if Castiel does not remove himself from the elder angel's presence.

"Because I didn't hear Him," the cherub says.

"Of course you didn't," Castiel says. He reminds the cherub, "All orders are passed down through the hierarchy. Only the archangels can actually stand in the presence of the Father and perceive his words. You're only a cherub."

"No, I'm chief of the cherubim, kiddo," the elder angel says with a laugh.

Castiel's wings flare up in shock, beating ineffectually against the enfolding arc of the other's wings. He turns to look at Ananchel, seeking reassurance and confirmation.

She sighs, and weaves the substances of her wings through the cherub's, until her wings are interleaved with his and they both are folding Castiel in a protective embrace.

"Castiel," she says, and nods at the cherub. "This is Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God."

"Well, I used to," the cherub – the _archangel_ – says. "Not so much anymore."

Castiel just looks in astonishment at the archangel, and feels very small and full of fear.

"Oh, kiddo," Gabriel says, "It'll be all right. I promise."

 

When Sam is almost 15 and still a freshman in high school, Dean breaks his leg on a hunt. It's a bad break and it stops them from going anywhere while it heals. Not because Dad wouldn't pack Dean into the car and haul him off if he could, but the fact is he really can't. Dean can barely make it on crutches, and there is metal poking out of his leg from where he had a 'motorcycle accident', at least according to the hospital report. He really needs to be checked regularly by a doctor to make sure he'll be able to walk without a limp once it heals; Dad relents enough to stop moving them around until Dean heals properly, because a hunter with a disability, however minor, was a hunter without the edge.

Sam's kind of glad for the injury, because it means that he gets to stay in one school for most of a semester – which means he gets to actually enjoy his classes and make friends that while temporary, are a little longer lasting than usual.

Dad found them a cheap house to rent – Sam thinks the owner might be giving Dad a break because they're both veterans or something, but he doesn't care. The house is great – Sam shares a room with Dean, but Dad has his own room, so Sam doesn't have to hear Dad's snore or worse, his drunken snuffling. It's quieter than he's ever known it, and Sam likes the illusion of privacy.

Sam also likes that there are kids in the neighborhood his own age who go to his own school. He meets some on his first day, waiting for the bus to the high school. They're mostly okay, but there's one kid, skinny and silent and radiating more weirdness than Sam knows how to deal with.

Which is why he of course goes up to the weird kid, who is only wearing a trench-coat even though it's at least nippy with the way the mist is so cold. Sam doesn't know how to deal, so he'll barrel through.

"Hey," Sam says.

The kid in the trench coat looks over at Sam with thousand-yard eyes that are blue as the sky and almost as deep, and shifts his satchel – he doesn't have a book bag like everyone else, he has an old-fashioned satchel, which is so totally uncool that even Sam knows it – tighter in his grip, like Sam might try to take it away.

"Hello," the kid says, in a voice that is soft and low and rougher than any guy Sam's age should have.

"Kind of cold out, isn't it?" Sam says. It's meaningless chatter, but Sam needs to break the ice somehow, and that's what small talk is _for_.

"The temperature is within normal variation for this season," the kid responds and then keeps staring at Sam with his unblinking eyes.

"Ah... okay..." Sam says, and stops trying to talk to him, because the guy is obviously stranger than Sam is, and not nearly as good at fitting it.

They stand around waiting for the bus, almost a dozen high schoolers in the grey morning. Eventually, it arrives, and the weird kid takes the seat right behind the driver, sits primly, and pulls out a heavy library book and begins to read.

Sam raises an eyebrow, but claims a seat on the edge of the area where the popular kids are sitting. It's not a great spot, but he's new and unknown, and the position means he's being tolerated, which will make Sam's life at school easier.

The first class of the day is English, and the weird kid in the trenchcoat is there – still in his trench, too, which is strange as hell given the way adults gets about trenchcoats on teenagers nowadays. The teacher, Dr. Phillips, directs Sam to sit right beside the weird kid, whose name is Cas, and gets on with the class.

They're reading _Invisible Man_ which Sam doesn't know from Adam, but he gets assigned a copy and opens it to the correct chapter and resolves to catch up. Maybe this will be an interesting read; at the very least it can't be more boring than _The Great Gatsby_ , which is what they were reading at the last school.

His day goes like that – classes mostly in the advanced section where everyone else has known each other from middle school, if not kindergarten – with trenchcoat Cas in most of them, and a break for lunch in the quad that the school building forms. Sam's last class of the day is PE, and he is buzzed from playing basketball as he climbs on the bus.

It's not that he's good at basketball or anything. Just that running around doesn't leave him winded, unlike a lot of his schoolmates, and he's gotten a bit taller in the last six months. He's kind of clumsy right now, and he's going to have to get new jeans soon (and maybe longer shirts).

Cas is sitting behind the driver again, his nose buried in _Invisible Man_ as he takes notes. Sam thinks that is a good idea and digs out his own copy, and starts to read. He's only got fifty pages to tackle before he's on what they covered today, after all.

At the bus stop, Sam is surprised to find Cas is walking in his direction. He's more than surprised when Cas turns up the walk at the house right next to the one Dad is renting. It's a much nicer house than Sam's, at least from the outside – two stories, at least, and with a wooden fence and a porch swing.

On the other hand, the lawn looks burnt, so Sam doesn't know what the heck is going on.

"Hey, you live here?" Sam asks. He feels kind of stupid when Cas swings around to look at him.

"This is my family's home," Cas says, in his soft, calm voice.

"I live next door," Sam says, waving to indicate the house.

Cas follows Sam's hand, to look at the little bungalow that Dad is renting from someone – renting in a way that might be kind of shady, Sam thinks.

"Yes, you do," Cas says, nods like that has settled something, and turns back up his walk.

Sam blinks, and watches the weird kid open his door. There's a yapping happy dog to greet him, and Sam glimpses just a bit of the hallway, which looks nice enough. It's not like there is a mucous-y pod monster behind the door, or more likely with how weird Cas seems, a villainous robot army being assembled to take over the world with Cas as their human-shaped infiltrator.

Sam shakes his head and goes home. He's got a lot to do, and that's before he tackles the intricacies of ninth grade geometry...

 

John stares at the vehicle in the neighbor's driveway. It's a horrendous, insanely painted VW van. It's tacky, and outdated, and the loudest thing on the block. John can't believe he once almost bought one of the things.

He really does a double take when the neighbors ('The Miltons' proclaims the mailbox, black script painted against a bright and cheerful yellow) bounce out of the house in a flurry of Hawaiian shirts and jangling jewelry. Mister Gabriel Milton, from the background research John's pulled up on the neighbors – it's pretty surprising what's in the public records, if you know where to look and damned if John is going to set up shop in the middle of civilians without knowing at least a little about his neighbors and what skeletons they might be keeping in their closets – who is brown-haired and brown-eyed and just a little on the short side of average. John know that Milton is some sort of musician, and works nights because of it, but he's tacky and loud and obnoxiously civilian. The man wouldn't know which end of a shovel to hold, let alone which end of a gun. And no man should be wearing more earrings than his wife.

Speaking of which, Mrs. Milton – a pretty, slender woman with brick red hair – waves her husband off laughing. She watches when Milton drives away in his tacky van and smiles fondly. John wants her, just for a moment – not for sex, but for her laughing mouth and warm eyes.

It's been too long – since Mary, there hasn't really been anyone substantial, and John wants what the Miltons have. A loving spouse, a stable home, and a son they didn't have to treat with iodine at the age of twelve, or teach how to draw salt lines before he could say the words clearly.

 

Sam spends the first two weeks just trying to fit in and make fast friends. It's only working a bit, when Dr. Phillips makes them write an essay on _Invisible Man_ , and then pairs them off for peer review the next day. Sam gets Cas Milton, his neighbor and the school's one true space cadet.

Which is why Sam walks home from the bus and follows Cas up the walkway, between seared shrubbery and burnt over grass to his porch – they're doing an English project together.

Sam shifts awkwardly as Cas opens the door – Cas isn't normal by any means, but he dresses better than Sam. Not more stylish – Cas seems oblivious to style – but his button-down shirts and soft sweaters aren't from thrift stores, washed to shapelessness before he ever wears them. His jeans don't have artful holes, or even just worn ones, unlike Sam's. And Cas' shoes are not nameless half-off pairs from the Payless – Cas has nice, neat black Nikes, not fancy Air Jordans, but shoes that won't fall apart in the next rain.

Sam follows his classmate inside, and almost bolts when he hears a man's voice call out, "Cas?" and then a liquid tumble of syllables that aren't Latin or anything else Sam can identify by ear.

Cas stops in his hall, and gives Sam a sideways look. He makes a soft sound, and then tells Sam, "Keep calm, Sam. And give away nothing."

Then the other teen steps into the kitchen, and sits down at the table along the windowed wall. Cas' kitchen is awesome and huge – floor to ceiling windows looking out over the backyard, a breakfast bar and a big sturdy table that Sam thinks might weigh more than he does.

There's a man at the center island, cutting peppers into thin slices. He's got brown hair, sharp, pointed features, and when he looks up at Sam, the most changeable, alive eyes Sam's ever seen. He's also overtopped by Cas, and even by Sam, who hasn't yet gotten a handle on the height his last growth spurt left him with – Sam's almost as tall as Dean now, and it's weird. He's getting used to looking _down_ at adults, and Cas' Dad – he must be Cas' dad – is a bit shorter than average.

Cas says something, a growling out of more foreign words that Sam feels like he should be able to understand – they still feel like Latin, except not, and it bothers Sam because it's like he can almost understand. Almost, but in the end all he can pick out his own name, 'Sam', amid the flood of syllables.

"English, Cas," the man says. "I don't think your friend Sam can follow us, and it's rude to exclude him."

Cas nods, like that makes sense but he'd never figure it out himself.

"Ah, hello, Mr. Milton," Sam says, and clutches his bookbag. "Cas and me were assigned to work together for English. Because we live near each other, Dr. Phillips said. It'd be easy just to come over."

Mr. Milton nods, like it's perfectly normal for Cas to bring home strangers, like there's nothing to worry about or keep secret from people outside the family. It must be nice to be normal and not worry about revealing what your life is like, Sam thinks. "You hungry, Sam? I've got pepper slices, and there are carrots in the fridge, I think." Mr. Milton goes to open the door.

"Peppers are fine, sir." Sam takes an offered bowl with a lot of calm deliberation. They're kind of crunchy and delicious, sliced and cold.

 

"You're spending a lot time over there, Sammy," Dean says a few weeks into them moving into the rental house, when Sam comes home an hour later than he should have.

His brother flinches, and Dean frowns.

"I was at Cas'. We have a lot of classes together," Sam says.

"You could have called," Dean points out. Sam knows better – you always have to know where your partners are on a hunt, and playing at schoolwork isn't much different.

"I was doing homework, Dean! Jeez!" Sam whines, and stomps into the kitchen. He opens their fridge, but closes it with a frown. "Don't we have anything to eat?"

"There's peanut butter in there, Sammy. Make a sandwich if you're hungry."

Sam frowns at Dean, and rolls his eyes. "Maybe I want something that didn't come out of a jar or a can, Dean."

Dean just gives Sam a look.

"Cas' Dad always has carrots and stuff for us."

O for crying out loud, the kid is whining for vegetables. Dean clomps into the kitchen with his crutches and snaps, "I'm sorry I can't satisfy your refined palate, princess—"

"Dean!"

"—but you can have corn," Dean drags cans off the shelves and slams them onto the countertop, "lima beans, or green beans and carrots. Take your pick, or try getting your own food!"

His brother slumps, shoulders down and not meeting Dean's eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean… I just…" he trails off.

"What?" Dean barks after a few moments of silence.

"I can make dinner," Sam offers, looking up hopefully.

"Knock yourself out." Dean maneuvers himself out of the kitchen to collapse on the living room couch, an old and tattered piece of furniture, and listens to Sam clattering pots around while Dean tries to watch TV. The news is dull and full of politics, which Dean doesn't care for in the least, but he keeps his ears open for any hint of strange events or disappearances. He might be left here with his broken leg, but he can still help Dad with research.

"Dean?" Sam says, and then drops a plate of food into Dean's lap. It's rice and corn and what looks like the ham steak that Dean found on sale the other day – Sam's actually fond of it, and the odd-shaped cans were affordable. It's actually a nice hash, hot and filling.

"Not bad, Sammy," Dean says, and gives Sam a playful cuff on the head. "How did you figure out how to cook this? You're not taking home ec, are you?"

"Dean…" Sam rolls his eyes, but he smiles, and settles back to eat dinner with Dean while they watch some stupid TV about people living in ridiculously large apartments in a city that seems too nice and clean to be believable.

 

"I like the kid. He's good for Castiel," Gabriel says as he peeks through the window to watch Castiel in the back yard, studying human literature with Samuel Winchester, who glows like the archangelic Vessel he is – which means an odd, tainted glow that reminds Anna of Lucifer, beautiful even as he fell. Even that threading of demon taint, so ancient it's been grown over and almost seamlessly incorporated into Sam's being, doesn't diminish how attractive Sam's soul is. Anna isn't surprised that Castiel likes the boy, though she's a little bit surprised at how Gabriel is acting towards him – he's a human and an abomination, and yet Gabriel treats him as if he were one of their own, unfledged and in need of a cherub's protection, as if he'd hatched in a garrison under Gabriel's authority. Not exactly what she would have expected, if she'd given any thought to how the Slayer of the Nephilim would act towards a mortal abomination. It is rather endearing.

"You like all children," Anna says as she rolls her eyes. "It's a consequence of being one of the Cherubim."

"Hey," Gabriel protests, turning to frown at her with his whole body, face scrunched up in affront and shoulders thrown back aggressively, "Archangel here. I'm not a Cherub!"

Anna smiles. He really is the last thing humans think of when they say 'cherub'. He's entirely too smirky and mischievous, for one – little do humans know that angels aren't actually sweetness and light and treacly proclamations.

"You're head of the Choir, or were."

"–Am,'' he snaps. "I'm still in charge!"

In response, Anna presses her lips together, not smiling even though her mouth wants to quirk up again. Gabriel might be an archangel, but he had to run the choir full of the most crazy and occasionally abstract creatures of Heaven – the cherubim. It is no wonder he is so random and plagued by bouts of whimsy.

"If you say so, Gabriel..." she says, and tries not to laugh as he turns back to stare out the window at their hatchling and his human friend. The shadows of Gabriel's wings ruffle where they are tucked away in a higher dimension and he settles in to watch. Anna resigns herself to preparing dinner, because Gabriel is certainly not going to manage it, as distracted as he is by Castiel and Sam.

 

Sam's enjoying studying in Cas' backyard. There's a round patio table, complete with garish umbrella, some comfy deck chairs, and a hammock. Sam thinks Mr. Milton gets to run the backyard, because the colors are bright and ridiculous, the chairs are all comfortable, and because Mrs. Milton has made it clear that she's very definitely indulging Mr. Milton with some of the decorating, but she has limits.

So Cas' dad gets to run rampant with the backyard and the den, but the living room and the kitchen are pretty normal. Nice, even, in a boring way. Sam loves being at Cas' house.

They're finishing their earth science homework – rocks for jocks, Dean calls it, even though it's an advanced course and Sam isn't a jock – when Mrs. Milton sticks her head out and asks if Sam is staying for dinner.

"Dean's working late," Sam says, which is true enough. Dean said he was going to hustle some pool and not to wait up. Sam hopes Dean is careful doing it. Dean plays well, and has been sneaking into bars for over a year, but he's got a broken leg. He won't be able to run if someone takes exception to Dean's pool sharking, and with Dad away hunting, there's no one to back him up if a game of pool goes bad – Sam certainly isn't up to it yet, still being too short and too obviously underage to be in a bar legitimately.

"That's all right. We always have enough for you, Sam."

Sam packs up his books, and follows Cas into the house. Mrs. Milton asks him to help set the table, and he and Cas share the chore. Sam tries not to laugh at how Cas lays out the utensils with utter precision, like he'd be measuring their placement with calipers if he could. Sam figured out the first day that Cas is weird, and keeping his ears open let him eavesdrop on the teachers – they think Cas is autistic or something. He's good at math – he's brilliant at math; he's on the team for Mathletics, not just an alternate, like Sam – and science, to an extent, but he doesn't get anything in English class.

Which is why Cas helps Sam with geometry and earth science, and Sam feeds Cas ideas for his English essays. Not that it always helps. Cas wrote something weird when they covered 'The Scarlet Letter' two weeks ago, Sam knows it. Dr. Phillips had given him such a funny look when she passed back their papers, and held Cas after class.

Anyway, sitting down with Cas and his family for dinner is great. Mrs. Milton talks about her job – she does something at one of the local business that sounds like it might be important. Sam isn't sure what Quality Assurance means, but Mrs. Milton spends a few minutes telling them – telling Mr. Milton, really – about how she had to deal with a co-worker being 'obstructionistic'. Mr. Milton laughs and suggests really ridiculous solutions, pranks like turning the filing cabinets upside down, which makes Mrs. Milton smile.

Mr. Milton talks about his day too, but Sam knows even less about what a professional musician does. Apparently, Mr. Milton has got a few 'good leads', and then is very pleased with one of his students who is really progressing.

Sam eats his salad and his green chile chicken enchiladas, and thinks that he'd love to have a home like the Miltons someday. He can see himself being successful – maybe a police officer, or a lawyer – and having a house, and a wife, and maybe a kid (that he wouldn't drag all across the country or force to hunt monsters).

Afterward, Cas takes him to the den, and they watch NOVA on PBS. Well, Sam watches it, and Cas sits beside him and types into the laptop – a split processor, DOS _and_ Unix, 4 gigabytes each – that his parents got him. It's what normal – well, nerdy, but normal nerdy, maybe? – people do. Except when Cas looks up at something the TV said, and smiles his faint, bemused smile, Sam's throat goes tight and he just wants Cas so much in that instant that he loses all restraint...

It's a pretty good kiss, Sam thinks.

 

Castiel knows what this is – lip against lip, mashing together. It's a kiss, a romantic overture among humans. Gabriel and Anna have enacted the gesture multiple times for the benefit of human observers, and more times because they seem to enjoy the act in itself. Castiel had never seen the point.

He's never seen the point until Sam leans towards him during the informational program on robotics that Castiel has been viewing – humans are infinitely inventive and their creativity is one of the most astonishing things about them, especially in this age, when they've formed groups solely to invent things faster and more systematically. Angels could never form groups for the purpose of being _c_ _reative_ – it simply wasn't in the nature of angels.

Angels wouldn't invent robots, or Linux, or a mode of affection that doesn't use wings…

But in the nature of angels or not, Castiel quite believes he likes kissing.

Or perhaps he just likes Sam.

 

Sam can't believe he kissed Cas. Really can't believe it. He doesn't like boys. He doesn't.

Except... Cas is Cas. And Cas sort of started it, by being so nerdy and temptingly normal.

"Dude, your parents are going to come down any minute," Sam says. He's not whining, he's not. He's just worried – kissing a boy is one thing. Getting caught by his parents kissing him, that'd be awful.

Cas blinks, then tilts his head. His eyes roll to look at the ceiling, as if he can see right through the floors.

"They're fornicating in the master bedroom. They won't interrupt us," he states. "I would like to continue kissing you. I find it... intriguing."

Sam chokes on Cas' statement. EWWW! He didn't need to imagine Cas' parents having sex – ew! Even if Dean thinks Mrs. Milton is pretty, and she is, with her luminous pale skin and pretty eyes and straight red hair – it's gross to think about your parents, or your friend's parents, having sex. Sam means, Mr. Milton isn't ugly, just a little funny-looking with his sharp face and prominent chin, but Sam in no way wants to imagine him having sex. Ugh.

"Cas, don't ever bring up your parents and sex! Please! It's gross! I don't want to imagine _that_!"

Cas considers this. He tilts his head as if he's trying to see all sides to Sam's protests. "But you are imagining having sex with me," Cas points out.

"Not sex! Not sex _per se_ ," Sam says. "I mean, I like you. And the kissing was... nice–"

Cas cuts him off with a lunge and a liplock and Sam can only make 'umph!' noises. Sam doesn't have a lot of experience kissing girls, and Cas is a boy, but it's really nice. Better than Dean said kissing someone would be, even. After a time, Cas lets him up for air, but not before Sam is dizzy and breathless and has been thoroughly won over.

Sam never does get to hear much about the advances in robotics at MIT that the TV is showing, because he and Cas spend the next half hour making out, just kissing and petting and being close to each other. Sam gets hard in his pants, but he's too nervous to take out his dick and show it off to Cas in the hopes that something will come of it – so it's just making out, kissing and touching and warm tingly thoughts. They only break off when Mrs. Milton does come downstairs – in sweatpants – and points out that it's late and Sam has to go home because it's a school night.

Sam blushes and hopes that the dim light bulb conceals how messed up he must be. He says goodbye to Cas, and scurries upstairs and out the door, running over to the house that his family are renting.

He rushes up to his room, dumps his bookbag, and then heads to the bathroom. The shower hides everything, he figured out years ago, and he really liked kissing Cas. He throws his clothes on the floor and spends the next few minutes under warm water, stroking himself off and thinking about Cas.

He'd better see if he can get some condoms at the school nurse... and maybe some information about gay sex – they have to have _something_ , surely. Health class is usually useless – Sam knows because he's been in lots of them, all around the country – but school nurses, they're supposed to help educate you about AIDS and how not to get it. Maybe Sam will get lucky and there will be a booklet he can read about how to have a boyfriend.

Because he's pretty sure that that's what Cas is now, considering they were making out in Cas' house.

 

"It's a hell of a thing," Bobby says when John calls him back for the research results. "The death rate in the town is below normal – noticeably. It looks like there hasn't been a suspicious death in the town all year–"

"It's not even May yet," John says. He's looking across the open fields and trying to decide if he should swing back to check on his sons. Dean said they were all right when he called in the other day, but he's been on the road for two weeks, and his travels have taken him round closer to them again. He could be there in under two hours, he's so close today.

"–not one murder, in a town close to a quarter million, if I count the rural roads and farm towns? That's ridiculous, Winchester, and you know it."

John hears the rustle of paper; Bobby is probably thumbing through this notes. He's meticulous in his research, though it doesn't look like it when you see the piles of books and artifacts in his house.

"Not to mention the spontaneous remissions – and not just cancer, either. Emphysema, heart disease, osteoarthritis – you name the disease, there is someone in town who got _over_ it in the last six months."

John sighs into the payphone. "What do you think it is, Bobby?"

"Hell if I know, John. I specialize in demons and murderous sons of bitches. This thing heals people, keeps them from killing each other, maybe even helps the grass grow for all I know. You've got something benevolent on your hands."

"It blew up a manticore, Bobby. And set it on fire," John says.

"I said 'benevolent', not 'safe'," Bobby snaps. "There are some pagan gods that give back when you sacrifice to them–"

"Human sacrifice?"

"Not always. And there have been no deaths that weren't natural causes or normal car accidents. The worst thing that has happened in town for six months is that girl in Sam's class falling down the stairs.

Bobby sighs over the phone, "You might have a locus geni on your hands – you know, a protective spirit for the entire town."

"What do I do about it?" John asks.

"Don't piss it off, for starters. There isn't much written about protective spirits – but whatever you've got there, it's probably touchy and reclusive, and you start harassing it, John, it'll harass right back. And you're an outsider; you might not get the protection being a part of the town gives."

"So I'm just supposed to let a thing that's capable of killing manticores wander the streets of the town where my sons are staying?!"

"You wanted someplace safe where Dean could rest up," Bobby snaps, "You got it – quit your bitching, Winchester."

"Exploded manticore," John reiterates.

"I can send someone down to help, if you don't think you can cut the mustard."

 

Sam watches as Castiel finishes writing out their solution to the last question, and looks anxiously at the competition judge. She looks severe, like a really suspicious librarian, and Sam has to turn his attention back to the page and Castiel's neat handwriting, or he'll start fidgeting again.

But Cas finishes writing, and hands Sam the answer page without a word. Sam looks over the answer, nods his head, and signs his name on the bottom of the essay. He gulps, and then takes it over to the judge.

"All done?" she says, in a surprisingly friendly voice.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says, and hands the work over to her.

"Then you can go outside. The scores will be posted in three hours," she says.

Sam waits for Castiel at the door, and then goes out into the hall. It's not their school, so the locker-lined corridor is unfamiliar and he's not sure where they're supposed to go, but Cas takes off confidently down the hallway, his ridiculous, talisman-y coat flapping around his ankles.

Sam kind of wishes Cas had left the coat at home, since every new teacher gives Cas weird looks for it, but Cas loves the ratty beige garment. Sam wishes Cas would understand it makes him look like a school-shooter, but his friend seems unable to comprehend the idea.

Oh well, it's not Sam who gets called into the counselor's office on a regular basis.

"Cas, Sam," Mr. Nickerson, who is the Mathletes' faculty sponsor as well as their geometry teacher, says as Cas leads them around a corner, and into a knot of teachers – and parents, because Mr. Milton ducks out from behind the mass, and shouts, "Boys! How'd you do?"

"I think we did okay," Sam says.

Cas says flatly, "We solved everything correctly. We will score the most points."

Mr. Nickerson blinks at Cas' flat assertion, but Cas' Dad smirks and nods, like he had no doubt that Cas would solve all the problems.

"Victor and Saundra are out in the courtyard," Mr. Nickerson says. "You two are the second team to finish, so you'll have to wait awhile."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, and hopes he can find the courtyard without getting lost in this school. It looks like a warren, and he's already not sure how to get back to the auditorium for the scores.

"C'mon, Sam, Cas," Mr. Milton says, hooking a hand on each of their shoulders, "It's time for pizza!"

"Mr. Milton–" Mr. Nickerson says.

"It's lunchtime!" Mr. Milton chirps, and hustles Sam and Cas out a side door before the teacher can really develop a rational argument why a parental chaperone shouldn't hijack his own kid from competition even though he's finished until the scores are out.

Sam is happy to pile in the back of Mr. Milton's hideous VW van, or at least he is until he realizes there's 'Brown HS Mathletes – We win, you whine!' scrawled in the back window. Somehow, he doesn't think Cas put that up.

They don't get out of the parking lot though – Mr. Milton drives like a crazy person, zigzagging around parked cars to zip close to the front courtyard. He pulls up, and sticks his head out the window and bellows, "Victor! Saundra! PIZZA!"

Sam's fellow students pop their heads out of the mass of teenagers to stare at the van for a moment. Sam sighs, rolls his eyes, and hauls open the door from inside, which makes them bounces with glee and run for the van.

"All right, kids," Mr. Milton says after they've bounded in, "Buckle up, it's pizza time."

Sam spends the next ten minutes alternating between wincing and fearing for his life. Mr. Milton drives like he thinks he's indestructible. Cas sits in the front passenger seat playing navigator, and not reacting to his dad's kamikaze road habits. Maybe he's used to it. Victor looks green when they reach the pizza place – and Victor draws the most disturbing cartoons ever in his math notebooks, so it's not like he has a weak stomach – and Saundra looks dizzy.

Sam feels a little lightheaded and giddy himself. It's not just surviving Mr. Milton's demolition derby driving style, but the come-down from the competition. He guzzles soda after soda when Mr. Milton orders two pitchers for their table, and doesn't object when the man tries to order them all a bunch of appetizers, even though he shouldn't be eating those. Sam's got just enough money – from lawn-mowing and dog-walking – to get the cheapest thing on the menu, but Cas' Dad just rolls his eyes and orders them two enormous pizzas – one that's all vegetables, peppers and onions and _broccoli_ , and then a weird one with chicken and artichokes. He doesn't let any of them pay for it.

Sam eats five slices, a basket of chicken wings, and three breadsticks. It's a wonderful day.

 

Castiel doesn't mind the rain. It is simple a phenomenon of the atmosphere, water precipitating out of vapor. It cannot hurt him, nor even inconvenience him.

But Sam looks miserable as they slosh through the tiny freshets that course over the pavement and sidewalks as the storms come down.

"Wish I had your coat," Sam chatters and hugs himself tighter with his folded arms.

Castiel pauses in their walk towards their two houses, and asks, "Would you like to have it?"

"What?! No! Jeez, Cas, there's no point in both of us getting soaked!"

"I would not mind. You seem upset, and –"

"I'm not taking your coat, Cas," Sam repeats, in a rather sharper tone, and strides ahead. Castiel has no choice but to follow, if he wants to keep up with Sam.

His shoes are wet through, an odd sensation, with his cotton socks twisting and clinging inside the soaked leather uppers. Castiel wonders if Sam's shoes, cheap canvas sneakers, feel as odd on his feet as Castiel's shoes do on his own. Maybe Sam does not find the sensation novel, because he is human and used to such novelties as wet feet inside wet shoes.

"Aww, damnit," Sam whines as they approach their houses. Castiel follows the direction Sam is looking in, and sees that the Winchester house is dark, windows unlit against the gloom of the storm. He extends his senses cautiously, and feels no one inside the building.

Sam does not deserve to go home to solitude, not as unhappy as he feels now, when Castiel brushes the shadows of his wings against Sam's being intangibly. Sam would just be sad, if Castiel let him walk to his own house.

"Come with me," Castiel says, and tugs on Sam's sleeve.

They walk up the steps to Castiel's house, and Castiel calls to his brother and sister softly in wavelengths and intent that humans cannot perceive.

Ananchel opens the door, and her face changes to a very human look of surprise. Castiel is impressed by her artifice – it is very convincing, and must be very useful for dealing with the numbers of humans Ananchel interacts with on a daily basis.

"You're soaked!" she exclaims. "Wait a minute, I'll get towels!"

Castiel pauses on his own threshold, and looks sideways at Sam. He hadn't quite expected Ananchel to react like that.

Sam just looks weary.

"Here, Sam, Castiel," Ananchel says as she comes back to the door, two tattered widths of cloth in her hands. The nubby texture of the fabric is soft, and after a moment of watching what Sam does with it – throw it over his head and use it to blot the worst of the water away – very useful.

"Come on, get out of your wet things," Ananchel says, looking directly at Sam.

"Thanks, Mrs. Milton," Sam says slowly. He looks tired, to Castiel's eyes.

"No problem, Sam."

"Sam's brother and father are not at home," Castiel says, even though it makes Sam wince.

"I know, Cas," Ananchel says. "Sam is welcome to stay and dry out. You can have dinner with us, Sam; I don't think your family will mind."

"I'll drip on your nice furniture."

"Pshaw," Gabriel says, as he's coming down the stairs. "You're welcome anytime, kiddo."

"Yes, Sam, any time," Ananchel agrees.

Castiel gives them both sideways looks, even as Sam towels his hair into a less damp state. The angel and archangel contrive to look as innocent as possible, which makes Castiel wants to flare his wings at them.

"I think I've got some sweats that might fit you, Sam, if you want some dry clothes," Gabriel says.

"Thanks, Mr. Milton."

That's how Castiel winds up having dinner again with Sam. He still doesn't like eating that much – though french fries _are_ a wonder worthy of Heaven – and so he notices when Sam starts to yawn and nod at the table.

"Sam, you look exhausted. Why don't you stay the night? I can phone your family, and you can sleep in Castiel's room. I think we have a sleeping bag around here somewhere..." Ananchel says after dinner. Gabriel, who has been drinking vile sugary mixes of alcohol all night, steers Sam, sleepy and resistant, up to the room Castiel has claimed as his own. Castiel looks at the archangel, and resents him for monopolizing Sam's time so.

Sam is asleep almost as soon as he lies down, dressed in clothes that Gabriel offered him, the sleeping bag Gabriel fetched from somewhere – or perhaps created – tucked over him.

"Don't look at me like that, Castiel," Gabriel says, and rolls his eyes before smiling. "The kid is yours if you want him. One baby Vessel is enough for anyone to deal with."

Castiel frowns, but lays on the bed beside Sam, and frowns at Gabriel until he leaves Castiel's room. With him gone, Castiel feels comfortable enough to spread his insubstantial wings over Sam.

It is as if Sam is a new hatchling, and Castiel an angel mature enough to be tasked with taking care of him. The action – lying beside, breathing quietly, and covering with a wing – are so very comfortable that Castiel wonders that Gabriel had ever borne giving this up.

If this is what he will always feel with Sam, whether or not Sam can ever absorb and reflect back his Grace, Castiel will be content.

 

Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, too hot and disoriented. He's smothered under a sleeping bag and someone else's limb. It takes him a fearful moment – he doesn't remember where he is, doesn't know who he's with, and can't find a weapon – to remember that he was at Cas' place.

"Sam?" Cas asks, shifting beside him enough that his arm isn't over Sam anymore. He doesn't even sound sleepy, which Sam doesn't think is fair.

"Crap. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I gotta go home."

"Your family was called," Cas says. "Your brother says you may stay here tonight."

"Oh." Sam relaxes back into the bed. "That's good."

Cas makes a pleased hum and shifts back towards Sam. "Yes, it is."

Sam stares into the darkness. Cas' house is quiet, and his bed is warm. "Do you think your parents are awake?"

Sam can see Cas smile in the faint light of his clock-radio. He looks sly, suddenly like his Dad. "I think they will not bother us, if you wish to repeat 'making-out'."

"Jeez, Cas!"

"I enjoyed it."

"Yeah, so did I," Sam mumbles, and is glad that the light is dim, because he's pretty sure he's blushing.

Cas leans over him, and kisses his cheek, and then his mouth.

"This is good, yes?" the taller boy asks Sam.

"Yeah, it is," Sam replies, and rolls onto his side, so that he can kiss back easier.

They don't get too far, since Sam is still worried about Cas' parents knocking on the door and barging in – and Sam would be horrified to be caught in the act by Mrs. or Mr. Milton – but it's really nice anyway, Sam actually feels someone else's hand on his dick – through sweatpants, but still – and Sam falls back to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

"So... I think I'm beginning to like sex," Anna says.

"Beginning to?" Gabriel asks. "Just beginning to? I think I'm offended."

Anna lifts herself up enough that she can look down at him, (which feels really good, because they're still joined, oh yeah) and pokes him in a tender spot. "Oh, for Father's sake. I'm not going to cater to your ego, Gabriel. The act is fun, it's a good way to spend a half hour, but it's not the best thing ever."

"It's one of the best things about being in a human body!" he protests, and wriggles under her.

Anna gasps at his shifting, and then narrows her eyes. She frowns down at him. "Stop trying to distract me."

Gabriel laughs, and pushes himself up on his hands, "I'm just trying to prove my point. Human bodies are _fun_." He smirks at her and pecks her with a short teasing kiss.

"This is a golem," she says, pinching her own flesh. "So is this..." she pinches his cheek. "There's nothing human about our bodies."

"Ha! Shows what you know. I didn't get these made half-assed, Ananchel. Best alchemists I could get on each of them – the bodies might have started out as clay, but they're works of art, and they're human to anything but angels, and our brethren would only be able to tell because there aren't any souls attached."

"Castiel's body isn't that good," she points out.

"It was a rush job," Gabriel complains, and puts his hands on her waist, digging his thumbs into her flanks. "I wasn't expecting you to be trailing a baby brother."

Anna looks away, even as she leans in to kiss him. "It was an accident, you know. Just bad timing that he saw me leaving and followed."

"I don't mind. It's good to have family," he says.

Anna laughs, and puts her hands on his shoulders. "You're such a Cherub, Gabriel. All love and flock." Then she grinds her hips down, and every objection Gabriel was about to voice drains out his ears as he gasps and writhes.

"You are so cheating," he moans.

"Maybe," she says, with a cat's smile. "Are you objecting?"

"Oh no. Not as long as you keep doing that."

"I thought not."

They'll finish the argument another time, Gabriel decides. He'll have more ammunition, since Anna is proving how much she does like sex just at the moment.

 

When he goes to check on Castiel later – Anna has decided to experiment with sleeping again, so she's sprawling across their bed right now – he finds the hatchling typing away on the laptop.

Gabriel is kind of confused about that. Castiel hasn't really taken to humanity – even mimicked humanity – very well. Gabriel's not sure if it’s the rushed nature of his little brother's Vessel, or – more worryingly – the training hatchlings get in the garrisons now.

But Castiel likes math, like engineering, and would probably be dating his computer if it was a little smarter, the way he spends most of his nights with it. Gabriel doesn't think Castiel has even tried sleeping yet.

Admittedly, lying comatose for a few hours while you hallucinate vividly and mostly uncontrollably, sometimes going amnesiac about the entire experience, doesn't actually sound appealing the first time you hear about it. But Gabriel has found it fun in the past, and generally indulges in sleep and dreams once or twice a week.

On the other hand, Castiel might be typing away on his laptop, but Sam Winchester is sleeping beside him on the bed, and Castiel's wings are arched over the boy protectively, so close to manifesting on this plane that Sam can probably sense them.

Gabriel goes back to Anna with a smile on his face and a song in his heart ('Puppy Love', Paul Anka, 1960 – Annette Funicello was kind of a babe).

 

Castiel waits until Sam is asleep, before he slips out of the bed and looks down at the human. The strange state of vivid hallucination and unconsciousness confuses Castiel, and he lays a hand on Sam's forehead – the rapid firing of his brain neurons calms, and Sam settles into the lull state, without the hallucinations that humans call dreams. Castiel could slip into his mind now, and talk to Sam face to true face.

But he doesn't. Instead, Castiel pulls on his robe – humans are very concerned about nudity, which Castiel finds confusing but tries to conform to their standards – and passes through the door.

Gabriel and Ananchel are in the kitchen. Gabriel is sitting on the counter, eating an enormous bowl of ice cream. Ananchel is sitting at the table, brushing out her Vessel's hair.

Castiel frowns at them. "You were copulating."

Gabriel smirks, "So were you, kiddo."

"Not truly, and not on the table," Castiel complains. "Sam eats there." He knows humans become disgusted if certain bodily functions are performed in the same location. One washes one's body in the shower, but evacuates one's bowels into a toilet, not a tub – humans find mixing the two locations, even though they might be in the same room, separated by no more than a few feet, disgusting. Surely consuming food and copulating are similarly separate activities, both in time and location.

Ananchel, at least, looks a little bit ashamed of herself. Castiel's flight leader lifts the shadows of her wings in apology, and says "We'll try not to do it again, Castiel."

Castiel presses the shadows of his wings – stumpy things that they are still – against hers, and pulses acceptance through his Grace. "Thank you. I don't want Sam to be disturbed."

"Oh, is that how it is?' Gabriel laughs, and the echo of his laughter vibrates through his Grace, and the shadows of his wings enfold Castiel for a moment, palpable through the golem flesh he wears, not just on his own wings.

"I like Sam. I do not want him disturbed."

"He's going to like you anyway, little brother," Gabriel says. "That boy is full of puppy love."

Castiel looks at the elder angel in confusion. "I am not a puppy...?"

Ananchel laughs now, and stands up from the table to pat Castiel's arm. "'Puppy love' is a figure of speech, Castiel. It means Sam's infatuated with you and fascinated by you."

Castiel frowns. Sam does spend much of his time with Castiel, which Castiel believes he enjoys as much as Castiel does. It's not the same as being among his clutch-mates in the garrison, but Sam's regard is warm and a near match for that missing sensation. But there is no reciprocation, no exchange of Grace along with the regard, as far as Castiel can perceive, and with Sam as weak as he is, surely there is a risk.

"Is it hurting Sam to be infatuated with me?" he asks.

Gabriel sits up at that. "Why would you think that?" he asks, even as the shadows of his wings wrap tight around Castiel and compel Castiel over to the archangel's side, to rest under his protection and bask in the Grace that is pouring off his elder in an ever flowing stream.

"I have not been able to reciprocate properly," Castiel admits. He's tried, focusing time and attention on Sam, and even attempting, very carefully, to pour some of his Grace into Sam's soul. But Sam's human, and Castiel's an angel, even a very small one, and his regard is too thick and viscous for Sam's soul to take in – or so it was when Cas attempted to share with Sam as if he were a brother. Even at his most receptive, right before or after they 'make out', Sam only takes in a trickle of what Castiel offers to him, and retains it for no time at all.

Ananchel makes a tsking sound. "Castiel, he's human. He doesn't have Grace to share with you."

"I am aware of that."

"But," Gabriel says, as he throws an arm around Castiel's shoulders, and starts plucking as Castiel's hair with his hand, "you tried to."

"Sam is... interestingly shaped. Some of my Grace – it seemed like it was entering Sam, but then it passed right out of him. I don't know what happened." Castiel frowns. It wasn't like with other humans, who took in the little slivers of Grace he doled out to the man with lungs charred from years of tobacco smoke, or the woman working three jobs into exhaustion who sat at the bus stop, or the girl on the street who Castiel knew only needed a tweak to be so much healthier...

Gabriel frowns, and looks past Castiel to Ananchel. Castiel dislikes that, because he can feel them singing to each other in Enochian, beyond the range of human ears, and beyond the range that an unfledged hatchling like Castiel can perceive more than a minuscule bit of. Archangels and garrison officers simply sing at ranges far enough beyond him, so their conversation is mostly unintelligible to him, unless they make an effort to modulate their song for him. It is intensely frustrating, and Castiel hopes he will soon mature to the point where he can perceive more of their conversations.

"Yeah," Gabriel says finally, "about that..."

"What is wrong with Sam?"

"Well, nothing..." Gabriel hems.

"He's a Vessel of the archangelic line," Ananchel says bluntly.

Castiel stiffens, and his wings mantle up, shadow and substance both.

"...What?!"

 

Sam notices it on the weekend, when he and Dean are invited over for hamburgers and hot dogs, along with half the neighborhood. It's a not quite an impromptu block party, and even Dean, uncomfortable in the long cast on his leg, relaxes on one of the deck chairs.

Mr. Milton is running the grill, slapping pineapple slices in among the burger patties and making the most out of his tackiest Hawaiian shirt yet. He shoos Cas over to where Sam and Dean are sitting, with a plate of burgers to keep them occupied.

"Oh, cheeseburger. I am starving!" Dean says, reaching for one as Cas looks somewhat befuddled at the plate his dad just handed him.

Cas eyes Dean up and down. "You do not appear to be underweight..." Cas says dubiously.

Sam laughs, especially at the face Dean makes. "He's exaggerating, Cas. For effect, you know?"

Cas tilts his head, and gives a minute shrug, like the world is strange and confusing, but Cas has learned to tolerate it. Cas picks up the unadorned burger, and takes a bite, which leaves the pineapple burger for Sam.

It's pretty tasty, actually. Roasting a pineapple slice on the grill? Really good. Sam wonders if he can get another. Mr. Milton seems intent on feeding everyone, starting with the kids.

 

Castiel eats the food Sam has placed before him – it is the flesh of cattle, and as Castiel eats it, he gets impressions of days in a pasture, with the green scent of hay and the slightly alcoholic fizz of silage. The bun is less vivid, but it tastes of the sun and of warm summer breezes.

"Boy, your Dad can cook..." Sam's brother murmurs appreciatively. He is eating a second cheeseburger, and Castiel frowns at him worriedly.

"You should eat a serving of vegetables, Dean. A balanced diet is important for maintaining health, and you need more minerals due to your injury."

Sam laughs at that, and pushes his elbow against his brother's chest. "Dean only eats greens if they're smothered in cheese. He's afraid of them otherwise."

"Am not!" Dean protests when Castiel looks at him in confusion. The young man adds, "I just don't like them, Cas."

"But they are good for you. Ms. George explained that the daily recommended—-"

"Don't quote health class at me," Dean growls. "I don't need a lecture, you—-

"Hey, keep it down, you hooligans!" Gabriel cries.

Castiel looks at his brother in concern. Is his conversation with Sam and Dean disruptive to the gathering? He's not sure – human social mores are so complicated...

"Gabriel," Ananchel says reprovingly as she crosses the backyard lawn and lays a hand on the back of Castiel's chair and a hand on the back of Dean's. To Castiel's exasperation, Dean is suddenly flushed and distracted. Castiel has noticed that Sam's brother becomes excited around Ananchel and only Ananchel – he doesn't react to either Castiel or Gabriel, so instead of it being a reaction to their angelic nature, it is something less comprehensible. "The boys are all right."

Gabriel's response is to stick his tongue out of his mouth, as Castiel has seen very young humans do, and then grin. Sam stiffens and then flushes, but Ananchel just sighs.

"I'm sorry, Dean, Sam. I can't take him anywhere," Ananchel says as she strides past them to close on Gabriel and remonstrate with him again, so perhaps it was just Gabriel behaving like a child that upset Sam.

"Wow, Cas," Dean says dreamily. "Your mom is kind of awesome."

Castiel gives Sam's brother a confused look. He will ask Sam what that meant later.

 

 

"Your dad has a tattoo on his _tongue_?" Sam asks, incredulously. It's freaky and bizarre and it had to have hurt like a mother. "Why?"

"It was necessary," Cas says.

"What? Why would it be necessary?"

"It keeps his body working," Cas says, like tattooing your delicate organs is important for your continued health.

"How? What could it possibly say–"

"'Emet'," Cas says, and then pulls Sam's notebook over to write it. But he doesn't write it in English, but in graceful Hebrew letters, that match the dark smudges Sam glimpsed when Mr. Milton stuck his tongue out at his wife. "It is a Word of Power, at least when used properly."

Sam freezes. Cas sounds like he knows what he's talking about, like he's spent time around Hunters. Sam's happy world crumbles around him, because Cas shouldn't know that, not if Cas is as normal and sane and all the things that Sam wants as he thought he was.

And Cas is looking up at Sam with guileless, cheerful eyes, happy in his quiet way to be talking about scholarship and language and possibly magic. Sam's world stops fracturing like a shattering mirror, and just becomes confusing.

How does Cas know magic? Especially Judaic esoteric tradition, which Sam has only seen glimpses of, on two very strange cases?

 

"You think what?" Dean asks, because Sammy occasionally gets a bug in his ear and thinks monsters are in his closet. Admittedly, that actually happened once, but Dean's pretty sure his brother is barking up the wrong tree this time.

"I think Mr. Milton is a golem. Maybe even the Golem of Prague," Sam says.

Dean glances through the dingy side windows, over to the Milton house which is bright and cheerful and doesn't have any visible sign that a centuries-old legend is living there.

"Uh huh..."

"Dean! He's got a tattoo on his tongue!"

"Dude, that's hardcore," and Dean is kind of surprised, because Milton is geeky and fluttery and looks like he'd go down with one punch.

Sam rolls his eyes and pops Dean a bitchface, the one that says, 'Dean, you're being stupid! Listen to me and my bratty whining!'

"Well, it is," Dean defends. He kind of wants a tattoo of his own, but he's going to be careful with it – his will mean something real when he gets one done. "Do you have any idea of how painful a tongue tattoo would be..?"

"That's not the point," Sam grouses.

There's not much Dean can do when Sam gets pissy like this, "So tell me what is, Sammy?"

"The point is that Mr. Milton has the word 'emet' – Hebrew for 'truth' – written on him, like he's a golem."

Dean sighs and pinches his noses. "Or like any dork who doesn't check what he's getting tattooed on himself by someone in the know, Sam. So he had a few wild oats back in the day. That doesn't make him a golem, Sam."

"But it could!"

"Sam, you've got monsters on the brain – and this is a monster-free town. Bobby checked, Dad checked, for all I know Pastor Jim and Caleb checked too. We're here because this is a safe place for me to lie up, and you are imagining there are monsters in every bush."

It's the way that Sammy's face falls that breaks Dean's heart, but seeing monsters everywhere isn't any better.

 

It's the Friday after the block party, Cas and his mom are out – Mrs. Milton waved to Sam as they went by in her car – so Sam feels like it's the right time to ask. He's been stewing over this all week and he has to ask or explode.

He rings the doorbell and waits on the front porch nervously.

"Sam?" Mr. Milton asks as he opens the door. "Were you looking for Castiel? He's out with Anna grocery shopping, but they should be back soon if you want to wait..?"

"Thank you, sir. I will, if you don't mind?"

In response, Mr. Milton smiles, and stands back to let Sam come in. Sam walks through the house nervously, and settles down on one of the chairs in the living room.

"Sam, want some soda?" Mr. Milton asks, making to go through to the kitchen. "We've got some bean dip if you—-?"

"Mr. Milton," Sam blurts, "are you the Golem of Prague?"

Cas' dad straightens up and stares at him, his changeable eyes wide and shocked. Then Mr. Milton starts laughing, sharp rollicking barks.

"What?! Did someone slip you a mickey in your soda, Sam?"

"You've got ' _emet_ ' written on your tongue," Sam says.

That makes Mr. Milton stop laughing. His face falls, and suddenly his eyes aren't kind at all, just cold and tawny, like a tiger's. His chin comes up, his shoulders square back, and Sam realizes that although he's a little taller than the man, Cas' dad is solid and surprisingly fit under his ridiculous Hawaiian shirts. Sam might win a fistfight, if he's lucky – very lucky. Confronting Mr. Milton in his own house was probably a really stupid idea. Especially if Sam's right and he's some sort of magical automaton designed to protect Cas...

"When did you see that?"

"At the block party. You stuck your tongue out at – " Sam pauses, because he doesn't know what Mrs. Milton is to Mr. Milton, if Mr. Milton is a golem. Did the real Mr. Milton die and this is a replacement? Did he ever exist at all? Are Cas and his mom caretakers for an old and irreplaceable artifact? – "Cas's mom, and I saw there was something written there. Cas told me what it was when I asked."

"Oh, kiddo," Mr. Milton rolls his eyes, but he's not talking to Sam, "I have got to teach that boy 'operational security'."

Sam clutches his bookbag closer, and just stares. "I won't tell my Dad, or Dean. If you promise you're not going to hurt Cas."

"What about you, Sammy?" Mr. Milton asks, gesturing up and down at Sam.

"I can take care of myself."

"You aren't doing a bang-up job of it, Sam. You shouldn't have let me get between you and the door."

Sam freezes, and grimaces. Mr. Milton is blocking Sam in. He might be able to go out a window, or out the back, but only if he can outrun Mr. Milton, and there isn't enough space for him to get a head start.

"Go sit at the table, Sam," Mr. Milton says, and ushers Sam into the kitchen. "Sprite okay?" he asks, and pulls a can of soda out of the fridge. He sets it in front of Sam, and pulls something out of a cabinet for himself – a bottle of whisky and a shot glass.

"Uhm," Sam opens the can, and takes a sip. It steadies him.

"So... Sam..." Mr. Milton drawls, his tawny eyes sharp again, "what do you think you know?"

Sam shivers slightly. "You're a golem."

"Am I?" Mr. Milton's voice is mocking.

"You've got 'emet' – 'truth' – written in your mouth. You didn't get burned on the grill, even when you got knocked into it, so you're not flesh and blood like a human being. And you're... weird – you don't know things, human things, that you should if you grew up human."

Mr. Milton snorts with laughter.

"I think you're here to protect Cas and his Mom. That's what golems are _for_. They're protectors."

"I'm glad you don't think I mean you any harm–"

"I didn't say that!" Sam blurts, then squeaks and tries to correct, "I mean, you don't mean anyone harm, but you're a golem – you're going to protect who you're supposed to and not care about the rest of us! Not because you're mean, just because we're not in your orders– what _are_ your orders?" Sam trails off with the question.

Mr. Milton has been staring at him the entire time, kind of thunderstruck, then shrugs and downs his shot glass of whiskey. He grimaces, and shakes out his shoulders. "Maybe I can't tell you, Sam."

"Then you _are_ a golem!" Sam crows.

Mr. Milton rolls his eyes. "I admit nothing. Plausible deniability is an important asset, Sam, and you're making it very plausible for me to deny everything. Seriously, accusing me of being a golem – that's ridiculous. You gotta learn, kiddo," he emphasizes his point by poking Sam in the chest with a hard finger.

"I _would_ learn, if you'd teach me! Are you the Golem of Prague? Is that why you're short, because people weren't as tall back then and you used to blend better?" Sam leans forward, eager for answers. "Or are you new? Who made you? Was it Mrs. Milton? Is that why Cas knows Hebrew already?"

"So many questions, Sam," Mr. Milton chuckles, and pours himself another shot. "You need to stop believing everything you read in a book."

Sam sits up, affronted. Books are great, why shouldn't he believe things in books? "I figured out that you're a golem because of a book!" Sam accuses.

"I haven't said that I am a golem – though I'm willing to concede that you think I am," Mr. Milton laughs, and tilts his chair back in a way that Mrs. Milton doesn't let Sam get away with. Sam hasn't seen Cas ever try to sit back on two legs of a chair.

 

Anna doesn't see Gabriel in the kitchen when she gets home. She's a little surprised – Gabriel loves food, loves the sensations his not-quite-human body gives him, and is quite proud of the fact that he's learned to cook – and is generally puttering around with edible matter when he's not off tormenting the unrighteous or performing music for humans.

She extends her senses beyond the body she's wearing, and knows Gabriel is in the attic. She frowns at that, and tries to fly to his side. She gets as far as the upstairs hallway; the attic is warded, much to her consternation.

The attic stairs are down, however, so she dashes up them.

"Gabriel! Why are there wards..." she cuts off her question, as she sees what Gabriel has done with the attic. Half of it is as it was, dusty slats with a few token items shoved here and there to convince any suspicious humans that they're a completely normal human family.

But the other half – it's now covered in luminous nacre, glowing faintly with its own light. Gabriel crouches against the wall, one hand petting the shining material, one hand in his hair, tugging compulsively.

"Gabriel?" she asks, her body suddenly chilled.

Gabriel turns to look at her, his eyes shining with frustration, bright and glowing with his Grace.

"Ananchel," he murmurs, his voice rough.

"Oh..." Anna sighs. She twists her lips and makes a quick decision. It takes barely a moment to yank the stairs up after her. That seals the attic, as she thought it might; at least Castiel won't get caught up in this. It would only confuse him, possibly even traumatize him. He's only a baby, after all – he hasn't even fledged yet.

"How did this happen?" Anna asks as she goes to Gabriel and folds herself around her.

The archangel snuffles into her neck and laughs bitterly. He doesn't stop tugging at his hair, until she grabs his hand.

"Gabriel?" she asks, uncertain.

"It's you. Us," he says, nosing against her ear. "It's been so long... I've been so alone... I should have anticipated this." He draws back to look at her, and his eyes are silver with light.

"You're nesting..." she says, and puts a hand to his cheek. "Oh Gabriel..."

"I hate this," he mutters, light and tears leaking from his eyes. "I hate it. This is the worst thing about my Choir."

"It's all right. It's not like I haven't done this before," she says, and begins to pull off her jacket.

Gabriel stops her, hands around her wrists. "Anna," he moans, "I'm not a Cherub. I'm an archangel."

Anna pauses, then shakes him off. "I'm a garrison commander, a Bene Elohim. It's not like I'm a lowly ishot."

"I could still fry you like an egg."

"You'll just have to be careful then," she says, forcing herself to be calm. She pulls off her jacket, and then her shirt, folding them neatly. Her bra follows, then her pants and underwear, shoes and socks. It might not be necessary, but they're both in Vessels, and even now, her skin feels prickly and too tight.

Gabriel strips off his colorful shirt at the same time, tossing it and the rest of his clothes in a messy heap. He scoots back to the corner he'd been crouched in, and Anna follows him.

The floor is softer here, giving under her hands and knees. Gabriel has made a place lovely and comfortable, welcoming and slightly warm. Anna approves – it's not a garrison sand pit, it's friendly and better.

He leans into her and begins to kiss her. She brings her hands up, puts them on his neck lightly, reassuring. His Grace thrums under her hands, bringing up an answering hum from herself. He draws back once, to look at her with concern, then resumes kissing her, this time putting his shoulders into it.

Anna enjoys it, the sweet simplicity of it, until his Grace suddenly shifts to a higher pitch, almost whining. She pushes against his chest, pressing him back until he's flat on the floor. This is probably the best way – they've had sex this way many times, it's enjoyable and she has a lot of control of the process. And she'll need it, considering that Gabriel's Grace could fry her to cinders if he loses enough control.

She might be a Bene Elohim, but he _is_ an archangel, albeit one that is molded into the form of a Cherub, no matter how much he objects to the fact. He's the only one of her eldest brothers that would even be capable of nesting; she's rather grateful for that, because what monsters Lucifer would hatch out if he were capable of generating new life doesn't bear thinking of.

She straddles his thighs, somewhat surprised that his body's penis is lax and uninterested. When she gives him a look, he rolls his eyes and shrugs.

"You just have to make things difficult," she says, reaching down to massage the organ in questions.

"It's not like I... oh, Father," Gabriel mutters, and bangs his head on the floor. "This is a bad idea, Sister. Bad bad bad..."

Anna pauses, his penis grasped casually in one hand. He's hardened a bit, almost enough that he wouldn't flop if she were to try enfolding him. "Do you think you can shut down your urge to nest?"

Gabriel laughs again, bitter again. "I was trying all day. No. No, it's like trying to wrestle a hurricane. Fuck..." he grunts, as she resumes stroking him, "I am so fucked..."

"Not yet," Anna says, laughing.

"Oh, you are _on_ ," Gabriel says, and tries to sit up. Anna pushes down though, holding him flat, and shifts until she can bring herself down on his erection. She slides down on him, enfolding him in her manufactured body, and moans.

It's wonderful. Gabriel's wonderful, and this is wonderful and they're going to make new life, a new angel, which is wonderful.

Gabriel must agree, since he moans and whimpers and clutches at her with desperate hands.

They rock together, human style sex combined with their own angelic nature as their Graces bleed out of their Vessels and begin to blend.

Anna shivers as Gabriel's Grace fountains up around them. He is _so_ huge, folded in so many layers inside his Vessel. She's a little pond compared to his ocean, but he tugs parts of herself towards him, very careful. He scoops off portions of her Grace and mingles them with his own, even as their bodies go through the motions of human sex.

She can perceive the embryonic angel congealing under Gabriel's concentration, even as her body orgasms and collapses on his. She breathes heavily for several moments, and then lifts her head. Gabriel has his head turned to the side under her, and his arm flung out.

He's touching a ovoid of nacre and white, a form congealing of light and Grace.

"Oh," she murmurs, and puts her hand on it. "Oh, Gabriel. It's alive."

She can feel the embryo's nascent Grace, fermenting and beginning to live.

"I do good work," Gabriel laughs.

Anna rolls her eyes and leans down to kiss him.

 

It's late spring and Castiel is watching Sam just leaving the school building when it happens. Sam walks out of the front doors, into the courtyard around the flagpole, and is lifting a hand to wave at Castiel when Castiel senses distortion and malevolence suddenly all around them.

Where and how their enemies concealed themselves from his senses, and how they evaded the protections Gabriel and Ananchel have over the whole town, is something to investigate later.

"Sam!" he says, and snatches up his friend's hand, tugging him toward the side-stairs that lead off the school grounds. If they can get away from the mostly deserted school – Castiel can sense only a few humans: several teachers, custodians, and a few students who stayed late like him and Sam – then they will be better situated to fight whatever is following them.

"Cas?" Sam asks, but he follows.

"Monsters!" Castiel hisses as they clatter down the concrete steps onto a tree-lined sidewalk. If only Castiel was fledged, he could fly them away. But his wings are still immature, and he cannot.

Sam stiffens beside him, and his face goes from confused and worried to resolute, and his soul crystallizes into a beautiful, resolute spike of intent.

"How many?" Sam looks back up the stairs, and flinches.

Castiel follows his glance, and sees several demons, wearing the bodies of senior students, mostly male, so both taller and heavier than either he or Sam, at the top of the stair. He could push them, and perhaps exorcise one or two when they fell down the stairs, but there are more than two – and it would kill the human, because Castiel is not adept enough to damage a body enough to incapacitate a demon without killing the body as well.

Extending his perceptions, he becomes aware of more demons surrounding them, out of human sight, but perfectly poised to envelope Sam and him where they stand. They have very few options, and running into the street seems the best of them, so Castiel tightens his grip on Sam's hand, and prepares to pull him along.

Just as he's about to step onto the asphalt, a van screeches up to them, and its door slides open. There are demons inside, and they are grinning.

"Get in, boys," one rumbles, "You're going on a trip."

"Shoot," Castiel curses.

 

Sam gulps in air nervously and wrings his backpack straps. Getting grabbed just as they started walking home from school – he and Cas had stayed late for a project, and missed the late bus – is like something out of an Afterschool Special. Maybe something about how kissing a boy is a road to delinquent behavior and a bad end, or something else ridiculous and preachy.

Except Sam's pretty sure these are monsters that have him and Cas. They move a little too sharp, like they're not quite human under their skin, and Sam can smell the rotten egg scent of sulfur.

He swallows convulsively. Sulfur means demons, and he doesn't know how to deal with demons – not really. 'Christo' will get them to reveal themselves, and they can be exorcised if you follow the ritual perfectly, but they're so much beyond what Sam and Dean and Dad have ever dealt with that he can't see any way out of this. Especially not with Cas beside him.

"Ah, little Sammy," says the man who they get dragged in front of, in a derelict old factory. Seriously, it's got the weird paned windows and claustrophobic brickwork of the 1920s, and Sam wonders crazily if it's been empty all this time. There's certainly enough dust and cobwebs.

"Wh–who are you?" Sam stammers. "What are you?"

"I'm your godfather," the man grins, all lean and hungry, like a werewolf, and leans forward into Sam's face.

The man's eyes are yellow – marbled and streaky yellow.

"You!" Sam yells, and lunges in the grip of the two goons. He knows what this thing is.

"Oh, you're a pip," the demon that killed his mother laughs. "I see great things for you, Sammy. But your friend here, he's not so special..."

"Stay away from Cas!" Sam yells, and tries to kick the demons holding him. He's not strong enough to do more than flail in their arms, but it is Cas the yellow-eyed demon is peering at.

"Now, Sammy, I'm not going to hurt your friend. You know that. Just settle down for a spell and we'll get acquainted," the demon grins menacingly.

"I am not afraid of you," Cas says, straightening out of his perpetual slouch and looking it right in the eye.

"Why would you be afraid of me?" the demon says. "Sit down," it gestures, and two battered crates slide across the floor. "Relax for a spell. We're all going to be friendly here."

Cas, being Cas, sits down when the demons holding him step back. His eyes flash to Sam, and the demon notices. The yellow-eyed demon grins and nods to the mooks to let Sam go.

Sam gulps, and twists his lips. There's no way he can make a run for the door – there must be five or ten demons here besides the yellow-eyed one, and he's just not that fast. He lifts his chin, holds his head high, and steps over to sit beside Cas on the crate.

"There, there, we're all friends here, now," the demon says.

"You killed my mom," Sam shouts.

"I am not your friend," Cas says at the same time.

The demon looks at Cas, and says, "You seem pretty sure of that, kid. You might want to rethink that."

Cas gives it a slow, thoughtful blink, and states, "You are still not my friend."

This amuses the heck out of the demon, and he just chortles.

Sam slips his hand down and back, grabbing Cas' and holding it out of sight. He squeezes, and after a moment, while Cas still stares at the yellow-eyed demon, Cas squeezes back.

"What do you want with us?" Sam asks, and there's only a little quaver in his voice.

"I want to see you fulfill your potential, Sammy," the demon says, its grin just a little too wide, a little too exaggerated, like it's playing to an audience. "But something has been interfering in my plans lately. You know how it is, you can never get good help, and you wind up having to come by to check the work yourself."

Sam gulps. It sounds like the yellow-eyed demon has been checking up on his family, on him.

"So, Sammy, care to tell me what your dear old dad has managed to dig up to keep you away from me? What kind of trick is he playing?"

"I..."

"It is a sigil," Cas says. "I can show you."

"Cas!" Sam yelps.

"Can you? And here I thought we weren't friends."

Cas stares back at demon. "Do you want to see?"

"Sure, sport, show me?"

Cas stands up, and pulls a paint pen from his pocket. He looks at the floor in consideration, and then goes down on one knee. He starts drawing an arc, smooth and perfect, between the demon on one side, and Sam and him on the other.

"Cas, no!" Sam says.

"I know how to do this, Sam," Cas says.

"It's a demon!"

"It asked to be shown," Cas says, even as he keeps sweeping the arc out.

"This is a line, kid, not a sigil," the demon remarks.

"It is complicated, and thus needs to be large," Cas says. He keeps drawing the line, curving it around the crate and Sam and into a loop until he's almost back where he started from.

Sam feels the hair on his neck stand up as Cas finishes the last few inches and connects the line back on itself. He is sucking in an anxious breath as Cas lays a finger on the completed circle and the world explodes into light.

"I am Castiel of the malakim, and I stand against you, fallen one!" Sam hears right before the light overwhelms him.

 

"Dean," Mrs. Milton calls out as Dean stumps home, hoping that Sam has shown up at the rental house, since he wasn't at the school like he said he'd be. Dean's leg is aching and he's worried and it's making him crazy.

"Mrs. Milton—" Dean starts, intending to blow her off.

"Castiel is missing!" she says as she comes down off her porch. "Is Sam? They were staying late at school together."

Dean knows he grimaces, because the hopeful look slides off Mrs. Milton's pretty face. Ordinarily, Dean would be trying to get such a hot older woman to smile at him, but Sam is missing. And it looks like his best buddy Cas is too.

The woman hisses, and frowns back at her house, her expression torn. "… Fudge," she says sharply. "I don't care about – Dean, I need your help!"

"Looking for Sam and Cas?" he confirms, as he clatters up the walk to her house.

"Yes. Yes, that's it," she nods. "I just have to tell... come in for a minute?"

Dean follows Mrs. Milton into her nice civilian house, and glances around. It's neat and straight and weirdly coordinated, like it came right off a TV show – the Miltons must have sunk money into decorating, because everything goes together, with nothing out of place or clashing, and Dean is pretty sure that's not how houses usually are. People accumulate stuff they like, not because it matches but just because.

"I have to tell Gabriel we're going," Mrs. Milton says, and Dean looks up.

"Mr. Milton? I haven't seen him for a couple of days," and it is really hard to miss him – his shirts are loud enough to qualify as rock concerts by themselves. "Has he been sick?"

"Not exactly," Mrs. Milton heads up the stairs, leaving Dean to follow her awkwardly. They get to the upstairs hall, and then Mrs. Milton tugs down a set of attic stairs that have to be unfolded from the ceiling. "Gabriel?" Mrs. Milton says as she climbs up the attic stairs. "Beloved...?"

Dean follows her up, shaky on the open steps with his bad leg, because Mr. Milton doesn't answer, even though Dean can hear Mrs. Milton clumping around up there.

The attic is... not what he expected. It should be rough boards over slats, with boxes and trunks and shit. Instead, it's luminous white, like the inside of a seashell.

"What...?" Dean whispers, startled.

"Dean, no!" Mrs. Milton cries, just before Dean is yanked off the steps and into the attic, his legs banging badly against the edges of the access hole.

Mr. Milton has him by the collar, glaring down at him with eyes that are glowing gold.

"Gabriel! NO!" Mrs. Milton grabs at her husband's hands, trying to pry him off Dean, even as Dean tries to wriggle away. Milton's short, and kind of flabby, and it's like being trapped in a vise. Dean's going to get choked by a guy who is way stronger than he should be, if he were human.

Dean can only beat at the man's hands and try to throw himself backwards, try to tear his own clothes apart to escape, but it's not working. Cas' Dad is holding on like the proverbial limpet, and Dean is going to have to apologize big time if he survives to see Sammy again.

Golem of Prague, who knew? Sammy's crazy theory looks to be right.

Mrs. Milton has switched to some language that isn't English, and isn't Latin, but it's got that kind of rhythm. Mr. Milton's eyes don't clear, but he tilts his head as she goes on. Doesn't stop glaring at Dean, of course, that would be too easy.

Until the man drops Dean abruptly, spins on his heels, and stalks off to stand in a corner of the attic.

"What ... the... hell...?" Dean gasps, even as Mrs. Milton kneels down to fuss over him. "Seriously, what the HELL?!"

Milton doesn't respond, just stands in his corner, silent.

"Dean..." Mrs. Milton begins as she helps Dean to his feet.

"No!" Dean growls, shaking her off. "I thought Sammy was off his rocker, all that talk about golems, but he was right. He," Dean stabs a finger at Mr. Milton, "is a fucking golem!"

Dean clumps forward, and tries to grab Milton's shoulder. If he remembers right from all of Sam's crazy note-taking, golems can be stopped – not killed, because they're not really alive – by wiping the Word of Power that animates them off. So... all he has to do is grab Milton, spin him around, and find something on his that looks like a tattoo. And then destroy it, somehow.

Yeah, he hasn't thought this one through.

Especially not when the response to grabbing Milton's shoulder is being buffeted to the floor by... something. Dean feels like he was hit by a truck, but all he sees is a shimmer of fog, like a cloud inside the attic. Mr. Milton is glaring down at him again, down the long grey length of fog and dew.

"Gabriel!"

Mr. Milton shuffles his feet, turning just enough to look at Mrs. Milton.

"Dean's not a threat!" she says. Mr. Milton tilts his head, obviously not believing her. He stares at Dean again.

"He's not," Mrs. Milton says, and she come and kneels by Dean, putting a hand on his shoulder. Dean would love being touched by Mrs. Milton, because hot older red-head, but her touch is so impersonal, so cold. "He didn't even get near the baby, did he? See, he's harmless."

Mr. Milton turns away from them both, and the grey foggy shape lifts from where it had Dean pinned, curling up and around Mr. Milton's back. It settles along his spine, like half a cloak, and slowly thins.

"Damn," Dean says, completely freaked out.

"Gabriel," Mrs. Milton says. "Castiel is missing, and Sam. They've been missing for hours. I think something has happened, I'm going to try to find them...but I think it might be demons."

Mr. Milton looks at her at that word, and away. His frown deepens.

"No. No, I understand. You have to stay with the egg. I know how close it is," Mrs. Milton sighs. "Can you let me see her, before I go?"

Mr. Milton turns, actually moves his legs and turns, shuffling out of his corner. What happens next is the freakiest thing Dean has ever seen, no fooling.

Clouds of mist coalesce and pull out of the corner, swirling around Mr. Milton and tucking behind his back, and with each cloud pulling away, the corner shines just a little brighter, until Dean can't bear to look at the glowing miniature sun by the man's feet.

"Oh, Gabriel..." Mrs. Milton coos, and reaches a hand out to pet the incandescence. "It's going to hatch soon."

Mr. Milton smiles, a full-out smile of joy, and slips a giggle. Mrs. Milton looks up at him, and smiles herself. She stands, and goes over to her husband, takes his face in her hands and kisses him as the clouds of grey fog writhe behind him like angry snakes and a ball of sunlight glows at his feet.

Dean finds it utterly creepy.

"Be well, brother," Mrs. Milton says, as she pulls Dean to his feet and all but drops him out of the attic. "Take care of our egg."

 

"You know, you could have told me," Sam says as Castiel crouches at the edge of the circle and tries to pour more power into it. He frowns down at the double paint-pen line, then turns to look at Sam.

"Well, you could have!" Sam snaps.

"What should I have said?" Castiel asks. He genuinely wants to know, because between the orders from his older siblings, and Sam's joy in Castiel as another strange boy to be strange with, he does not see what purpose would have been served by defying his kin and burdening Sam with the knowledge of what he is and what he knows.

"I don't know. Something!" Sam says, and throws his arms wide inside the protective circle. "You could have said–"

"'Hello, Sam. I'm Castiel, an angel of the Lord'?" he asks.

Sam deflates a little. "Okay, maybe not _that_. But something."

"You liked me when you thought I was human," Castiel says, and goes back to drawing more sigils inside their circle. He is using Grace to reinforce the protection, circling the entire world outside of their little refuge with barriers and stopblocks. It won't stop something as great as the yellow-eyed demon, but it is the best Castiel can do with a circle, a paint pen, and his own Grace.

"I thought you were like me!" Sam says.

"I am like you," Castiel replies.

"I meant–"

"I am like you. My family has a mission, and I help with it, even though I'm too young to do many of the more dangerous tasks."

"Are you really?"

Castiel looks up at Sam, confused. "'Really?' Really what?"

"Are you really young?"

Castiel nods, and at Sam's dubious look, concentrates, pulling the shadows of his wings down and down, until they thicken and coalesce into a semblance of matter along his back. At Sam's gasp, he raises his wings, stubby as they are, and brushes the tips over Sam's shoulders.

"See?" he asks, as Sam stares at his wings. The other youth brings his hands up, and brushes his hands over Castiel's wings.

"You've got feathers... kind of."

Castiel nods, "This is how my wings manifest to you."

"Manifest?"

Castiel frowns, and tries to explain. "Angels are... celestial intent. We need forms of matter to interact with human..."

"... like, bodies?"

"Vessels, yes," Castiel nods. "Normally, I would indwell in a human, but ..."

"You possess people?!"

"Only those who consent to it, and who are capable. Many humans are not."

"Are you in a person now?"

"No," Castiel shakes his head, a gesture he learned from Sam. He feels awkward, explaining, so he turns back the edge of the circle, and the protective signs that are not quite finished there. "This is a body made of clay–"

"A golem!" Sam says in understanding. "Like your dad...wait. If you're in a golem body, and your dad is a golem too... is your dad an angel too?"

Castiel nods. "Gabriel is my brother. Not my Father. But he said humans wouldn't understand that, so I should allow humans to think he and Ananchel were my parents, instead of my guardians. But I only have my Father, like all angels."

"By 'father' you mean... God?"

Castiel nods, and stops working on the sigils. They cover a handspan inside the circle, which is as much space as Castiel can sacrifice to the protection without making it too cramped to move inside, or too voracious of the power Castiel is fueling them with.

"God... does he... I mean... what's he–"

"I have never met God," Castiel admits as he sits back, leaning closer to Sam and his humanity, his warm and faithful soul.

"But you're an angel!"

"Only the Four have seen God," Castiel says. "He speaks to others, on occasion, but the Four Who Were First are the only angels who have stood before Him. I am not among them, for I am very young."

"... How young?" Sam asks, and there is a hint of worry in his tone.

Castiel gives him a sideways look, and smiles softly, "Not that young, Sam."

"Well, you're an angel!" Sam complains. "There's probably something in the Bible about not dating angels..."

"Only in the Book of Enoch, which Gabriel says is a highly biased account of events. Most Christian sects consider it apocryphal as well..."

Sam looks distressed, so Castiel moves closer to him. Humans like closeness, even if they have no wings to wrap each other in.

"I'm going to Hell..." Sam moans.

"No," Castiel says. "Not if I can help it." He puts his arm around Sam, and then lifts his wings, swinging one out and wide to settle over Sam in all its stubby unimpressiveness. He folds Sam to him, if Sam were a new hatchling. It is all he can do, to let Sam have a little peace while they wait for the yellow-eyed demon to come back.

 

Mrs. Milton drives them around in circles through the town, but after a while, she perks up and then drives straight to an old brewery. The brick building is crumbling around the edges, and it's exactly the kind of place monsters would lair up. Dean's pretty appalled that he and Dad completely lost their heads and thought the town's good luck would hold. But he's got a more important question, just at the moment.

"How do you know Sam and Cas are there?" he snarls at Cas' mom, because between her husband's freakiness and her knowing exactly where to go, Dean's wondering just what his brother's befriended all this time.

"I can perceive Castiel, at least now that I'm close," she answers offhandedly, and then mutters, "Someone is good with wards... just not good enough."

"No!" Dean grabs her arm as she makes to get out of the car. "Explain! How did you know—"

"Castiel is my child, Dean," Mrs. Milton gives him a beatific smile. Dean finds it extremely creepy, especially on such a pretty face, "one of the hatchlings of my garrison. I _know_."

Dean scrambles out of the car as she gets out, and meets her at the rear of the car. "What the hell?"

Mrs. Milton just smiles wider, her generous mouth stretched across her face, as she flips open the trunk.

"Uhm," Dean mumbles as he looks down at the assemblage – bottles of water (holy water?), bags of salt, and two long knives, one nice machete, and one a weird silvery spike of a blade.

"We'd better go armed," Mrs. Milton says.

"Yeah," Dean says as he grabs the machete.

 

 

Time passes slowly, and Sam drifts into a doze – possibly the best that can happen to him – before Castiel feels his entire being reverberate, from his true celestial self down to the golem body he inhabits. The effect on his body is profound shivering, and he wakes Sam with that.

"What happened?" Sam asks, his voice soft with terror. Castiel clutches his hand tighter, and tries to protect Sam with the shadows of his wings.

"I think..."

"Sam!"

"Castiel!"

They both look up across the huge empty room to see Dean and Ananchel at the far door. Sam's brother looks a bit worse for wear, and his hand clutches a bloody machete. Ananchel looks perfectly poised, and she glares at the demons that are scattered around the room.

"We've come to rescue you," Ananchel says, and steps towards them.

"Funny thing, that," the yellow-eyed demon says from the corner where he's been standing, observing and drawing no attention to himself. His hand spreads out, and Ananchel hisses as a ring of fire springs up around her. "I'm not actually stupid. One baby angel means there's usually one babysitter looking for the lost brat."

"Fuck!" Dean says succinctly.

Castiel would agree with him, but there is a ringing in his head, and the reverberation that shook him moments ago shakes him again. It hurts and yet it feels wondrous, and he gasps even as he feels Sam grip him in concern.

A wailing pierces through Castiel's being as the world cracks open just a little more, and there is more glory, more Grace, pouring down out of the Father's Heaven. He can hear Gabriel singing a paean of thanksgiving, and the echoing response of cherubim, who express joy and shock at the sudden reappearance of the leader of their choir.

"The egg hatched," Castiel says in wonder, and turns to smile at Sam.

Sam looks disturbed, not happy, and Castiel feels his mouth fall.

"Sam?"

"The egg... hatched?"

"Yes," Castiel answers, and tries another smile. Perhaps he looked fake before? Sam says sometimes that his expressions look 'weird', but Castiel wants to share his joy at his new sister with Sam, and this is how humans do it. Angels do it by exchanging tendrils of Grace and brushing wings, so he extends a bit of Grace to Sam – it rushes through him again, not being absorbed, just deflected – and brushes the tips of his brand new pinions against Sam's arm.

"What did you do, you bitch!" the fallen one yells as Ananchel, who is smiling tremulously, joyously, and has a protective hand on Dean. Sam's brother looks agitated.

Ananchel is ignoring him. Instead, she is extending her Grace in welcoming tendrils as the echo of their newest sister's hatching reverberates through the world. Her wings rise up as shadows, flexing up to the high ceiling as she laughs, her mouth wide.

"What is it, what have they done?" one of the lesser demons bleats, and tries to harangue Dean.

It is rebuffed by an absentminded shove from Ananchel, and her wings snap down to cover Dean in shadows, dark and cool and protective.

"How the hell should I know?" Dean barks, and clutches his pistol nervously.

The entire building rattles, and the demons howl and try to breach the protective circle, but Castiel simply stands close to Sam in the middle, and stares at them. They are darkly corrupted, and Castiel feels sorry for the humanity they once had, now lost.

"Hey guys, it's not cool to start a party without me!" Gabriel is suddenly there, standing across the room, clutching a blanket wrapped infant to his shoulder as the two of them appear in the middle of the warehouse. He is wearing his normal outrageously bright clothes and has a pair of ridiculous mirror-finished sunglasses propped on his head.

"You!" the fallen one howls, and steps towards Gabriel stiffly, his anger and menace in every stiff-legged step.

"Ah, Azazel. How the mighty are fallen." Gabriel retorts.

"Get him," Azazel growls, his yellow eyes narrowed in a grimace, and the lesser demons move to converge on the archangel. "Kill him, and bring me the infant."

The cheer falls right off Gabriel's face, and Castiel grimaces as Gabriel starts to glow. "All right, kids!" Gabriel yells, "Love bomb them!"

Sam yelps as the first Cupid appears. Its Vessel is a heavyset male human, and Castiel suspects that Sam might find Cupids just as off-putting as Castiel does. At least they are still inside the sigil circle, and the Cupid cannot reach them.

"Hello, you!" the Cupid yells, and picks up one of the demons in an entirely too enthusiastic hug. The demon wails like a frightened cat, then goes limp into the Cupid's arms as black smoke begin to erupt from its mouth.

"Oh, don't do that!" the Cupid frets, and hugs the demon's body even tighter with its Vessel's arms and with the shadows of its own wings. Castiel is not entirely surprised when light begins to erupt from behind the demon's eyes, and it makes a soft astonished sound as the twisted reality of the demon's being begins to unkink. In no time at all, the demon's body is entirely limp, and the demon itself is pouring out of the body as wisps of smoke that only get paler as it untwists itself under the Cupid's regard.

There is very little that can withstand a Cupid's undivided attention for any length of time.

"Oh..." Sam says in wonder, as the demon unfolds – untwists – itself into a fairly bewildered soul, standing transparently in front of the Cupid. It blinks and lifts insubstantial hands in astonishment, before smiling blindingly and disappearing in a crescendo of light.

All around the warehouse, the demons are being subdued, healed, and sent on their way as several more Cupids manifest.

Castiel is delighted to be a witness to such a miracle of the Father's infinite mercy and love for Creation, and yet quite glad that the Cupids can't get to _him_. He squeezes Sam's hand, and smiles at his friend when Sam turns to look at him.

"Wow," Sam says softly.

 

Sam feels the smile drop off his face as the yellow-eyed demon shrieks at them all – him and Cas and Dean, Mr. and Mrs. Milton, and strange naked people who are hugging his mooks into submission.

"NO! You– you – you're ruining the Plan!" Azazel shrieks.

"Plan?" Cas murmurs.

"Plan?" Mr. Milton asks, and hitches the baby in his arms higher on his shoulder. "What plan was that?"

The yellow-eyed demon snaps his head around to glare at Mr. Milton, who doesn't look at all small, somehow, even though the demon is taller than him by at least half a foot.

"My father will be free, if I have to kill you myself."

"Dude, you've lost," Dean says, "Give up."

The yellow-eyed demon snarls at Dean, and Sam flinches back himself. Cas squeezes his hand, and interlaces their fingers.

"No, Azazel," Mrs. Milton says, and her wings flare out – she's really pretty like this, like just like an angel should be, pretty and holy and righteous. Sam is kind of mesmerized, and Azazel must be too, since he turns to stare at her.

"He _will_ be free. I've worked on this for decades. Interfering angels won't stop me now."

"... You're right," Mrs. Milton says. She steps back, pulling her wings close. "Dean?" she asks, and holds her shiny shiny sword out to Sam's brother.

Dean looks at it in bogglement, and then takes the blade with a grin.

The yellow-eyed demon looks appalled. Then its eyes roll up, and it begins to vomit up the black smoke of what is its true form, if Sam guesses correctly.

"No no no," Mr. Milton tuts. "No leaving the tournament until the endgame." He snaps his fingers, and suddenly the black smoke is sucked back into the body, like a vacuum for smoke.

Azazel looks appalled, and then surprised as Dean stabs him in the belly and then up, piercing flesh that sparks and sizzles as Dean does it.

It's kind of anti-climactic, if this is the demon Sam's life has always revolved around. The demon's body goes rigid, and lightning crackles over his body, shooting sparks out its eyes.

"You fucker," Dean complains as he leans over the demon's... corpse?

"Dean," Sam breathes, and crosses out of the circle. He's at Dean's side in an instant, and hugs his brother. Dean slumps into his hold, and that's it, they're laughing and sobbing and Sam is so relieved that they're both alive.

Finally, Dean looks up at Mrs. Milton, "Thanks for the knife. I couldn't have done it without that."

"It's a sword, Dean," Sam says.

Mrs. Milton smiles in amusement, and takes the blade hilt-first from Dean.

"Knife, sword, who cares? It kills demons, that's all I know."

Sam looks at Mrs. Milton in concern. "Does it only kill demons?"

"No," Mrs. Milton says with a sad smile.

"What's your name?" Sam asks, suddenly curious.

"Anna Milton."

Sam frowns, "Your real name. Your _angel_ name."

Mrs. Milton tilts her head, just like Cas for a moment, and smiles. "Ananchel, Sam. My name is Ananchel."

Sam looks at Mr. Milton, who isn't paying them any attention at all. Instead, he's cooing to the baby in his arms, and looking warningly at the naked people who are shuffling closer, like curious cats.

"What about you?" Sam asks.

"Hmmm?"

"Well, you can't be Gabriel the archangel obviously, so what's your real name?"

Mr. Milton actually turns to look at Sam, a confused look twisting his mobile features. Then he barks out a laugh. "You're so adorable, Sam."

Sam yelps, because suddenly Mr. Milton is right there, crouched in front of Sam. He reaches out, and pinches Sam on the cheek. "Utterly, _utterly_ cute. But wrong. Lucky for you, Castiel likes you anyway."

Then he's flitted away again, moving without walking, and he's right next to Mrs. Milton – Ananchel – and showing off the baby as she leans over his shoulder to coo at the newborn.

Sam turns to look at Dean, who looks back thunderstruck. "Dude, I have no clue," his brother admits.

"Gabriel is... Gabriel," Cas says, and he's suddenly by Sam's side too, like he knows how to teleport suddenly.

"Oh, good one, Castiel!" Mr. Milton crows. "You'll be able to fly soon!"

Sam looks at his friend, completely bewildered.

"All is well now, Sam," Cas says, and crouches down beside Sam. He offers his hand to Sam, and pulls him up. "All will be well, all manner of things will be well."

"Uhm, okay," Sam says.

Cas gives Sam one of his fabulous bemused smiles, and offers Dean a hand up too.

"So, what the hell just happened?" Dean asks.

"You killed Azazel with Ananchel's sword. Gabriel brought his cherubim to help rescue Sam and me, and my sister was born."

"Oh," Dean says in a faint voice. "Glad to know. Thanks for clearing up."

Mr. Milton coughs theatrically, holds the baby so everyone can see her, and says, "Everyone, Yanah'el. Yanah'el, this is everyone."

Sam is rolling his eyes and about to ask where the baby came from, when suddenly Dean squawks. One of the naked people has snuck behind him and picked him up in a bear hug.

"Hello, you!" the naked man bellows.

Sam recoils, and clutches at Cas' arm. "What!?"

Cas' face goes flat, and his eyes narrow. "Cupids. They are ... happy to see us. Just endure it, Sam."

"What?—Endure—EEEEEEEK," Sam yelps, as he's lifted off his feet by another of the strange naked people – this one a skinny woman who looks old enough to his grandmother or maybe even older.

"Hello, small human!" she says as she bounces him around.

"Hey! Hands off the merchandise!" Dean yells, and is immediately let go of by the big man hugging him. It doesn't help, because even as Dean is straightening up, another of these weird naked people – Cas called them Cupids, and Sam suspects they're some kind of angel, a rather dumb kind – grabs him and hugs him.

"Cas! Help!" Sam wails as he gets put down and handed off to another naked hugger – this one, tall and broad and hairy.

"Sorry, Sam," Cas says in an aggrieved tone, and when Sam looks over at him, he's also being hugged, so it looks like they're just going to have to endure and wait for the naked hugging angels to give up.

Sam looks around the warehouse quickly. There must be thirty or forty naked angels, if not more. It's going to be a long night.

 

"She is very small in that form. Is that normal..?" Castiel says when they return to the house he occupies with Gabriel and Ananchel. He is looking over his new sister, who is small enough to fit the crook of Gabriel's arm.

"She's a baby," Dean says from the loveseat. Sam's brother still seems somewhat befuddled, possibly by all the revelations about Castiel's family. "Haven't you ever seen a baby before?"

"No."

"No? Not ever?" Sam asks, and puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"No. Not ever."

"There aren't any angels younger than Castiel's clutch, at least in Heaven," Ananchel explains. She is smiling down at their new sister as well. "Yanah'el is the first hatchling in... five millennia?" she asks Gabriel.

"Yeah, something like that. I stopped keeping track," Gabriel says distractedly. He is completely focused on their new sister – Castiel wonders if the archangel will be able to cope with just one hatchling in their nest. Gabriel should really have a large clutch to look after – seventy hatchlings would absorb and diffuse his attention appropriately.

Cas does catch the look that shoots between Sam and Dean, and frowns. "What?"

"You're five _thousand_ years old?" Sam asks, his voice oddly breathy.

Castiel shrugs. "Approximately. We don't perceive the passage of time in Heaven the same way we do when in earthly Vessels..."

Sam frowns. "So, are you really my age or not?"

"That question is imposs–"

"Yeah, he is," Gabriel says. "More or less. So you're good to go, tiger." And then he winks at Sam.

Sam blushes.

"Dude, what?!" Dean yells.

"Uhm...."

"Dean..." Ananchel says sternly.

Dean looks at Sam, and at Castiel, who raises his chin, stiffens his back, and puts his hand in Sam's. Sam clutches Cas' hand in return, and gives him a quick, worried smile. Dean's face closes off, turning stormy.

"Dean... I can explain–"

"No! No explanations!" Dean snaps, and then rubs his face. He looks oddly worn to Castiel's perceptions. "I'll... I'll figure out what to tell Dad."

"Better be quick about it, kiddo," Gabriel says with a laugh, and then turns back to cooing at Yanah'el.

"What? What's that supposed to mean."

There is a drumming knock on the door, and a voice bellows, "Dean! Sam! I know you're there!"

"Oh, crap," Dean says, and Sam's face pales.

"Do not worry, Sam," Cas says. "I will stand beside you."

Sam smiles, and leans up to kiss Castiel. "Thanks, Castiel. You're... you're the best."

Sam turns to face his father, and Castiel stands beside him. He is where he wants to be – on earth, doing good works, besides someone he loves.

FINIS


End file.
